


The Curse of Marriage

by writerspassion18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Curses, F/M, Family Secrets, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lust, Marriage, Marriage Law Challenge, Mild Smut, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-11 10:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16473791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerspassion18/pseuds/writerspassion18
Summary: Forced into a marriage by a law created long ago, Hermione gets more than she bargained for when she marries into a deadly family curse.





	1. Magic Number 8

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Halloween Trope Fest hosted by the Dramione Fanfiction Writers FB group. A 3-chapter story. Lightly inspired by the twisted-ness that is the Addams Family.
> 
> An enormous shout-out to LightofEvolution for being such a lovely friend and beta :)
> 
> -WP

“You’re hurting me,” Hermione panted, but she doubted that he could hear her. At any rate she didn't  _ really _ want him to stop. Yes, the conjured ropes around her wrists were cutting into her skin. Yes, his thrusts were rough and quick. Yes, she was utterly exhausted.

But she liked it.

There was a thin line between pleasure and pain, and she and Draco tested that line frequently. Tonight was no different. It had been opportune that as Hermione had left the bathroom, solely in her towel, Draco had come home. He had said nothing and done nothing except loosen his tie as he walked over and pulled her towel away from her. Hermione could barely get a smile or a greeting out before Draco dropped to his knees, kissing his way up her leg and dipping his head and tongue between her thighs.

That had been the beginning of a tiresome evening. One that had led to Draco picking her up, throwing her onto the bed, and using his wand to cast two perfect  _ Incarcerous  _ spells to tie her hands to the bed posts. Was there any better use of a bed that had them?

Draco and Hermione certainly didn't think so.

“Are you going to untie me now?” Hermione asked with a smile after catching her breath. She was smiling because Draco was trailing kisses from her shoulders and up her arm to her hand.

“Why?” he softly pondered. He stopped with the kissing when he reached the rope and let his lips lick across her fingers. When he was finished, he looked down at her and grinned. “I quite like when you're like this.”

“Only because you like to torment me,” Hermione playfully huffed. She looked away from his face, a wicked expression on her own as she noticed his cock very close to her face. She leaned up and licked it once, earning a very arched brow from the blond.

“Do you want me to untie you or not?”

“I won't be able to play with you if you don't.”

Draco let the corner of his mouth curl up and he nodded. “Touché.”

He finally untied her hands from the bedposts, and Hermione analyzed the damage. Red marks around her wrists, lightly discolored hands, her arms (and all of her) tired and achy. She happily eased herself off of the bed and could almost taste Draco's moan of complaint as she did.

“Forgotten me already?” Draco brooded. 

Hermione laughed and lifted her silk robe from her dresser drawer, lazily tying the sash, so her font was still mostly visible. She faced her husband and leaned with one hand on her dresser top as she addressed him. “I'm exhausted, thirsty, and hungry. So, off to the kitchen I go.”

“All that means is that you'll have to play with me in the kitchen.”

“Or the living room,” Hermione shrugged. “That's always been fun.”

Draco's mind instantly filled with memories because yes, they'd had several moments in their living room to make their bedroom jealous. In fact, if his wife was headed in that direction, he’d might as well join her.

He quickly hopped out of bed, slipping on his pants from earlier because Merlin knew how much he loved when she undressed him. He made his way through the modest, yet lavish house and found Hermione not in the kitchen, but in the living room. It was quite opportune, but Draco, unfortunately, had forgotten what he had left there.

“Draco,” Hermione said, privy to him having walked into the room. “How many times have I said no dead people in my living room?”

Draco stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked up to stand next to her. A somewhat elderly vagabond was laying on the floor with his throat slashed. Although blood wasn’t exactly  _ gushing _ , there was still a steady stream that had stained the carpet and the hardwood floor. Draco turned to Hermione and pursed his lips.

“Two?”

“Three,” Hermione corrected and sighed. “And you made a mess.”

“I was in a rush,” Draco explained as he wrapped his arms around her torso. “I cleaned myself up first, coming back for him, but the magic… It came on quickly.” 

Hermione had had a feeling that was what their latest escapade had been due to. The days after the curse's fulfillment were often felt in waves. Effects that she could feel washing over her as Draco stood behind her, a hand on her hip and the other creeping its way up to her breasts.

Eight years. Eight deaths. If the Ministry had known that this would be the result, that marriage law would have never been passed.


	2. The Repercussions of Selwyn

_Eight years ago_

_“This is insanity!”_ Hermione hideously scoffed as she set the _Daily Prophet_ down. “Thrown” was a better verb, for she pushed the newspaper so far from her that it nearly slid across the countertop. Harry had saved it from hitting the floor, and he sighed as he re-read the headline.

_Ministry Decree: Magical Populace Subject to Century Old Agreement_

Harry looked from the newspaper and over to Hermione who had her hands in her hair, quite possibly attempting to rip her hair out. He felt sorry for her. He was exempt from the law that had been recently enacted because he was already married. Ron was engaged, so he was also free from this mess. The only other people who were able to get away from this magical matchmaking were those in committed relationships with the intent to marry. While Hermione could very well find a friend who would agree to marry her, well, it would be the same thing wouldn't it? An arranged marriage, but with someone she'd be sure to tolerate. Either way it was a catastrophe.

“The Ministry knew about this and they didn't tell anyone,” Hermione grumbled as she set her hands down. “They knew that this was going to affect us, and they didn't warn people. We could've made preparations!”

“Like what? Made sure you were engaged or married by now?” Harry questioned. “Love doesn't work like that.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose and huffed. “It doesn't work like _this_ either.”

“Well that's just it, isn't it? This law has absolutely nothing to do with love and all about survival.”

“Yes. The only difference is that family lines aren't cursed like they used to be,” Hermione grumbled before sulking in her chair. “A dated law to fix a problem that no longer exists. It's absolutely horrid.”

* * *

 

“This is perfect, Draco.”

Draco raised a sharp brow at his father who had just finished reading the article that he'd brought him. He had expected outrage. Condescension. _Anything_. Instead, he had gotten approval and watched as a contented smile decorated his father's features.

“Perfect?” Draco scoffed. “Nothing is perfect about this.”

“No? So you'd rather gradually lose all of your faculties than marry?” Lucius asked with a raised brow to compliment his offspring’s. Draco groaned and ungracefully plopped down onto the armchair opposite his father.

“Of course not. I just… I'd rather that my future wife had a choice. The curses on other families are a finger prick compared to ours.”

“I don't know,” Lucius shrugged. “Feeling like your loins are on fire is an awful family curse. The young Nott certainly married quickly.”

Draco groaned louder this time and leaned his head back. It was a bit dizzying this way, but his life had gotten a rather good jostling, so what was the difference?

Lucius stared at his son for several minutes before attempting to comfort him in a rather uncomforting way. “It's only the consummation that's difficult. After that it will get better for the both of you.”

“Unless she's like my mother,” Draco grimly chuckled. He raised his head up so that he could see his father's face as he asked what he already knew. “She didn't find it difficult, did she?”

Lucius’ lips morphed into a smile. A cruel one. “She was a Black. Of course she didn't.”

* * *

 

Hermione was dreading today. She was so unnerved by this whole mess that she could barely sleep last night. She even woke up to vomit _twice_ . In the morning, she didn’t even bother to eat because she just knew that she would be upchucking it shortly afterwards. Instead, she sat on her couch, rethinking the Ministry-sealed letter that had come shortly after the _Daily Prophet_ had outed them.

There was a time when curses in wizard families were common. Some were benign like males being born every third generation. Others were more heinous like dying at an early age. And then there were some curses that could only be remedied through the act of marriage by a certain age. As it turned out, it was the latter that was the cause of every witch’s and wizard’s nightmare in England. Hermione had spent the past four days digging into wizarding history that culminated into an innumerable amount of books, scrolls, and even memories stored in the Ministry’s record-keeping department. It wasn’t until yesterday that she had come across what she had been looking for. It had been complicated magic, but carried out nonetheless, by a member of the Selwyn family, who wanted to ensure his family’s survival. His family had been cursed, and its only remedy was a marriage for his daughter before her twenty-first birthday. He had advocated for not only himself, but for all of the wizard families who were plagued by family curses. The wizarding world was small. What would happen if they died out? What would happen to the magical community?

An exaggeration, Hermione thought, but considering the population size at that time perhaps not wholly impossible. It was unfortunate that the Minister of Magic back then was rather impressionable and so fearful for the future of the wizarding world that he had entered a pact with Selwyn. One where every time the magical populace dropped to a certain number, the pact would be initiated, and the same would happen every one hundred years to be safe. Hermione knew good and well that the population had been on a steady incline since the pact, but that damn one hundred years kept it strong. The Minister’s position, no matter who it was, was inclined to fulfill that pact.

And so, here she was, walking down the Ministry’s halls all because of a marriage law that the government was obligated to keep. As her Ministry letter had told her, to keep the nature of matchmaking “fair,” it had been left to a drawing. A pitiful, dehumanizing drawing of two names who would be linked for the rest of their lives.

“Do you need help, Miss?”

Hermione blinked. She had apparently stopped walking in the middle of the hallway, and now she was thoroughly embarrassed. With a chuckle and a bit of rouge to her cheeks she smiled at the kindly older woman who had put a hand on her shoulder.

“Um, yes, please.” Hermione raised the letter in her hand so that the woman could see. “I’m supposed to go to Meeting Room 3. Could you show me? I know that it’s on this floor somewhere, but I’m a bit turned around.”

“Oh dear,” the woman said, a frown instantly adorning her face. “You’re here to meet your suitor, aren’t you?”

“He isn’t my suitor,” Hermione snapped, gasped at her own rudeness, and let out a deep, tired breath. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit put off by this whole thing as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“It’s alright. My aunt had to go through this herself, and so my mother told me she wasn’t very keen on the idea either.”

Hermione gulped and tentatively asked, “H-how did it turn out for her?”

The woman grimly smiled and shrugged. “They loved each other enough to have three children. So, I guess that means something. Meeting Room 3 is just at the end of the hall.”

Hermione watched the woman take off in the opposite direction. She looked down at the letter and noticed how its edges shook. With a soft groan she stuffed the piece of parchment away and kept her hands tucked in her pockets to hide her nervousness. As it turned out, she hadn’t been very far from the meeting room. This, however, only ensured that once she had arrived, she hesitated. She stood outside of the room for an eternity before putting her hand on the doorknob and heading inside.

Meeting Room 3 was a bare, four-walled room with nothing but a table, several chairs, and a board for writing. While she wasn’t expecting a fanfare, the minimalistic room was adding to her disgruntled attitude. Although, all emotion had been put on pause for the moment for she hadn’t been the only person in the room. When Draco Malfoy stopped in the middle of drumming his fingers on the table and looked up at her, there had been no sneer. There’d been no sign of anything honestly, not even surprise. It was either shock or maturity. It had been almost ten years, after all.

“Are you going to sit?”

Draco’s words had jostled her. Hermione took two quick steps inside before closing the door behind her. He watched all of her actions, anything to keep his mind off of the fact that _this_ was the witch who would be accompanying him in his misery. What made matters worse was that she wasn’t his mother. She wasn’t a Black. She didn’t have that “instinct” families like his had. What were they going to do?

“Anyone in there, Malfoy?”

Draco took a sharp inhale. It was his turn to be shaken from his thoughts, and he cleared his throat before resuming his finger-drumming. “It’s binding, you know,” he said after a short pause. He refused to look at her as he spoke and instead kept his gaze on the table. “There won’t be a re-drawing of names either. What’s done is done and there’s…no way out of it.”

Like Draco, Hermione hadn’t been able to look at him, and instead she had kept her eyes towards her hands. She couldn’t help but lift her head at his last few words though. With a lazy shrug and as indifferently as possible she said, “You must hate that it’s me then. We don’t exactly have the best history.”

A slight curl came to Draco’s lips and he tilted his head. “No, we don’t. And yes, I hate that it’s you, but not because of our history. Granger,” he closed his eyes briefly before letting his head loll back for just a moment. “You’re too good to be married to me.”

“Too good?” Hermione echoed. She crossed her arms over her chest and egged him on. “What exactly does ‘too good’ mean?”

“Bluntly put? I’m going to corrupt you, and there’s nothing that you can do about it.”

The sound of a chair scratching the floor rang throughout the room. Hermione’s heart was bound to burst if it beat any faster, but there was no slowing it down. It wasn’t just Draco’s answer. It was the way that he had said it. “Blunt” was too light of a term to describe the calm, matter-of-fact tone voice and unblinking eyes that never left hers.

“That’s not funny.”

The crisp tone that the brunette had spoken in shook Draco a bit, but not enough so that he could calmly answer, “It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Then what the hell are you playing at?”

“Nothing except giving you insight into the curse that you’re walking into.”

“Curse?” Hermione didn’t move her chair back, but she still leaned forward in her seat with her brows furrowed and her mouth hanging open. “The Malfoys have a family curse?”

“That surprises you?” Draco chuckled. He, too, leaned forward and cupped his hands on the table. “We’re an old, pureblood family, Granger. For us not to have a curse would be strange.”

“Of course it would,” Hermione scoffed. She paused for a moment, her hands running over her face and through her hair as she questioned, “What…what kind of curse is it?”

Draco’s face fell and he looked off to the side. “A malicious one. There are so many stories about how it started that no one knows truth from fiction anymore. The fact of the matter is that we know what happens when the curse is fulfilled versus when it’s not. It’s because of that that the Malfoys have a very questionable history. A very _deadly_ history. And that’s the curse. A Malfoy marriage is consummated and maintained by death.”

Hermione had heard him, she did, but the words had somehow fizzled in her brain so that she couldn’t comprehend him. “I don’t think that I heard you properly. Malfoy marriages are consummated and maintained by _what?_ ”

“Death,” Draco repeated. “Murder, if you want to be precise.”

“I don’t understand,” she gulped. “How is that a curse?”

“Of all the stories that I’ve heard, the one from my grandfather sounds the most plausible. It was said that Castor Malfoy was a vicious man and fighter and that he lay waste to anyone who upset him. Unfortunately, he killed a man whose wife was a very skilled witch. She cursed the Malfoy family so that whoever would marry into it would die within a few years.”

Hermione’s eyes bulged and she rose out of her seat in clear outrage and panic. “Malfoy, are you telling me that I’m going to _die?_ ”

“Is my mother dead?” Draco countered. Hermione huffed and flopped down onto her seat and urged him with a wave of her hand.

“How did she beat it?”

“She didn’t. The curse isn’t the same as it originally was because of decades upon decades of tampering.”

“What were they thinking?” Hermione quickly reprimanded. “Curses are dangerous enough as it is, but to tamper with one? You could very well make it worse!”

“You’re right. And it did get worse. The stories all get fuzzy from the initial curse, but the point is this: the Malfoys are the new age Black Plague. ‘Only death and misery make us happy,’ or so an ancestor once said. Every Malfoy spouse is required to take a life, and then, as an aspiring couple from hell, continue to do so to keep our minds happy and sane.”

Hermione’s mouth had fallen open. She kept waiting for the joke. For the upturn of the corners of his lips, the laugh, and then telling her to loosen her knickers and that he was just messing with her. However, the longer she stared into the serious, no-nonsense face of her _suitor,_ the more she shook her head and struggled to find the words to speak.

“Malfoy this is… This is absurd! Do you really want me to believe that your family curse is to kill people? _Really?_ That your parents have been murdering people for the past however the hell long they’ve been married?”

“They were part of two wizarding wars, Granger,” Draco said pointedly. “Plenty of targets.”

“It’s not possible!” Hermione sputtered. “I’ve studied family curses, and none of them are that far-fetched!”

“Well, forgive me in forgetting that your scope of wizarding knowledge is only limited by your narrow thinking,” Draco sneered. It was his turn to stand now, and he placed his palms on the table as he tried to keep himself calm. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not. It doesn’t take away from the _very real fact_ that one of two things is going to happen. Either you, by some miracle, consummate our marriage by killing someone, or we both slowly spiral into insanity and depression because a Malfoy knows no other way to live.”

“I’d rather go insane.”

“So would I.”

Hermione had been prepared to argue but she faltered, mumbling out a pitiful, “What?”

Draco smiled a little, albeit a sadly, and nodded. “ I don’t like this any much more than you do. I’d rather live my life at the edge of my insanity than to take an innocent life. The problem is that the curse _always_ plays out. One way or another it’ll be too much, and you’ll do it, and then we won’t stop.”

Silence fell between them and it was suffocating. The pair had gone back to ignoring each other’s faces and looking at everything else. Considering the bare room that they were in, there wasn’t much. It wasn’t long before they were both in their seats again, dreadfully aware that they were still waiting for the Ministry worker to come so the betrothal agreement could be read and signed.

“Curses aren’t prophesies,” Hermione said after some time past passed. “They can be broken.”

Draco had begun drumming his fingers on the table again, and he pursed his lips in disbelief. “If you say so.”


	3. A Psychopath Defined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a wonderful thanks to LightofEvolution for beta-ing!

The meeting with Granger was rather quiet after their talk. The Ministry worker had come in shortly after that, and then it was completely procedural. He went over why they were doing this, expressed his sympathies, what was expected of them during their marriage (one child, minimum), and then the final signatures that bound Draco and his future wife.

There hadn't been any discussion of a wedding. Quite frankly, Draco was completely onboard with postponing it for as long as their betrothal contract allowed. The longer it took, the longer they could hold off on the inevitable.

Draco exited the fireplace at Malfoy Manor and headed straight for his suite. He was going right for his study and to the liquor cabinet he kept there as he needed something, _anything_ to numb himself from today.

“How did it go?”

Draco aimed his wand without thinking, ready to shoot off a spell when he realized that it was his father in the room. The semi-partial darkness of the study had obscured him sitting in the corner with the very thing Draco had wanted to drink already poured.

The younger blond said nothing and stowed his wand away. He walked over to his father, took his glass, and downed it before sitting down and messaging his left temple.

“The Ministry paired me with Hermione Granger.”

Lucius’ shock was palpable and he sputtered, _“The mudblood?”_

“Really, Father,” Draco addressed him, a scowl on his face. “Is that any way to address your future daughter-in-law?”

Lucius refrained from snorting and sipped his drink. “The Ministry has a not-so-interesting sense of humor.”

“It was a lottery draw. It's not their fault that my luck is hideous.”

“A lottery draw,” his father repeated with a huff. “With a match like that I hardly believe it. Perhaps I can persuade someone there for another drawing? That way-”

“No,” Draco interrupted with a shake of his head. “We'll leave it as is. Besides, Granger and I have already come to a set of agreements.”

“You have?”

“Yes, and they're about the curse.”

 _“How could you tell her?”_ Lucius hissed angrily. “Our curse is meant to be kept secret. Only the affected are allowed to know!”

“And she _is_ affected,” Draco countered. He took a moment to summon the open bottle near his father and let it fill his glass. “The contract is binding. She deserved to know what she was walking into, and so I told her.”

Lucius grumbled and urged his son with his head to fill his glass as well. When it was to the top and the glass in his hand, he asked tentatively, “Her reaction?”

“She thought I was joking.”

“And then?”

“Long story short: she's not killing anyone, and we'll hold out and fight the curse for as long as we can.”

“You can't do that,” Lucius berated. “You'll go mad if you do. What's one life, Draco? Your sanity is at stake!”

“And your sanity is gone, although not in the way you fear mine will be,” Draco argued. “And it's not just ‘one life’ as you put it. It's multiple lives. An endless killing spree that the curse makes us feel is okay to do. A license to be a psychopath. Honestly, Father, _you're_ the one who's mad as well as every Malfoy before you.” Draco slammed his glass down on the table between them and rushed off.

Lucius’ eyes trailed after him, but his thoughts were far away. He thought of the curse and how it had affected his life. How that, yes, he had had his reservations, but the moment Narcissa had made her kill, cementing their union, it had felt...fine. Better than that actually. He had felt euphoric. A Malfoy was either going to go insane from not committing murder, from feeling guilty of that murder, or, as Draco had said it, from accepting what was and reveling in it.

Lucius preferred to be a psychopath.

* * *

It had been four days since signing her betrothal agreement with Draco, and Hermione was exhausted. Harry and Ron tried to help, but there was only so much sympathy and outrage one could take, especially when the situation was unavoidable. Hermione could just imagine what they would be like if she had told them about the curse, but that horrifying aspect she kept to herself.  Keeping that detail locked away was the main reason why she was so rundown. She hadn't been able to eat or sleep for her mind kept mulling over the fact that she was destined to go crazy. She wondered how long it would take. A year? Five? What would the symptoms of her insanity be? Would she even notice them?

Hermione groaned and yanked on her hair. It hurt like hell and served no purpose but to aggravate her scalp. She frowned bitterly and massaged the sore spots before determining that she wouldn't be getting any more work done tonight. If she went home now, _maybe_ she could get a decent rest and then get up early for work to catch up. It was a hope at least.

Hermione gathered her things and left the Ministry. She usually took the longer route to the apparition spot when the weather was nice. It woke her up in the mornings and was almost a cleansing from the long work day in the evenings.

But not today.

The sun was gone early, and it was cloudy. It bathed the path to the apparition spot in unusual darkness, and the cold breeze wasn't helping. Hermione held her bag tighter and walked a little faster. Although all Dementors had been rounded up after the war, at this moment she wouldn't be surprised if she saw one. Anxiety and dread were coming from somewhere, but she just couldn't pinpoint it.

Hermione had her wand in her sleeve, ready for use if need be. Her eyes darted wildly as she walked for another five minutes before breathing a sigh of relief when she made it to the apparition spot in a well-hidden alley.

She was about to disapparate when she heard a twig snap. Hermione turned with her wand raised, but it was out of her hand faster than she could comprehend. The next action happened just as fast, and she found herself careening into the wall just behind her. Her head hit against the bricks, and it disturbed her vision and the image of her attacker. All she saw was a black figure coming towards her, and moments later she felt a pair of hands on her neck. Hermione gasped for air as she did everything she could to free herself: prying at and digging her nails into her attacker’s hands, bringing her forearm against his, kicking at his legs… Either she was falling weak to this ambush or he was simply too strong. Is this how she was going to die? By getting strangled?

Hermione had far too much pride to leave the world like that, and so she thought hard despite losing sense of where she was. Although she had learned nonverbal magic, she had very little practice with wandless magic and was cursing herself for having not invested in it. Well, it was time now to try. Her vision had clouded over, but she reached out her hand and touched, what she hoped, was her attacker’s chest. She ran down a list of spells and charms, trying each one in a desperate attempt, until she heard a scream.

The hands on her neck slipped away, and Hermione was dropped to the ground. She fell onto the cold concrete, coughing and gasping until her lungs received air. It took several blinks to get her eyesight in order, which led to her finding her wand. It had rolled at least a foot away, and Hermione crawled towards it until the handle was in her grasp. She had been prepared to defend herself and weakly aimed her wand to her right, but found the alley empty. At least she _thought_ it was empty. She heard a groan emanating from the ground and it wasn’t until Hermione fully sat up that she realized what had happened to her attacker.

Hermione didn’t remember saying the spell, but obviously, she had. She gulped and crawled over rocks and mud to the man who was bleeding profusely from his chest. _Diffindo._ She had used the one charm that would do the most damage. Messy damage, if she were to be honest. The sudden realization that a man was dying made Hermione’s voice catch in her throat, and she hastily brought her wand to his wrist. The spell she used made his vitals appear in a puff of smoke, and they didn’t look good. Hermione hastily rose to her feet and cast a Patronus to call Harry and whomever Aurors he would bring with him. She hoped that any muggles who saw the ball of light flying through the sky would think nothing of it. In the meantime, she had conjured a towel, got down on her knees, and pressed it against the man’s chest.

Hermione had to admit that the cry of pain he had uttered was a delight to her ears. He had attacked her, but why? Clearly, it wasn’t a mugging. It had been a deliberate attempt to end her life and that did _not_ sit well with her. Even then, she had to try to save him if she was to explain to the Aurors that it was self-defense. And so, she kept her ears open for the sound of them, and her eyes averted from the scene below her. She knew that her actions were futile, for she felt her hands grow wet as they lay on top of the blood-soaked towel.

Some seconds later, Hermione knew that he was dead. It wasn’t because her hands were drenched. It wasn’t because Harry and the Aurors had come and pulled Hermione away. It wasn’t even because she saw them perform their own health check and her attacker’s vitals were flat. She couldn’t explain her feeling, because she knew that no one would understand. No one except Draco.

“I want to go home. Can I?” Hermione asked Harry.

Harry turned to his supervisor who was shaking his head at the scene. Coroners were here now to take the body away. It was as they were moving the body that the damage Hermione had done could be seen more clearly. A deep gash, perhaps the length of Hermione’s middle finger to her palm, was in the middle of his chest. Harry doubted that even if they had gotten there earlier, the man would’ve lived.

“Mr. Wrigley,” Harry addressed with the clearing of his throat. Once he had his supervisor’s attention, Harry gestured with his head to Hermione. “Can she go?”

“What? Oh, yes,” Mr. Wrigley nodded. “We already have her statement as well as her memory of the incident stored. Miss Granger,” he added to her, “if we need anything else from you, we’ll send an owl.”

Hermione nodded. She prepared her wand so that she could disapparate, but was stopped when Harry put a hand on her shoulder.

“Forgetting something?” he asked as he raised her handbag to her line of sight. Hermione gently smiled as she took it from him and slipped it over her shoulder. “Hermione, I still think you should go to St. Mungo’s. Your neck-”

“-will heal,” she finished. “It’s just bruised. I just want to go home, sleep, and forget that this happened.”

“I guess that means you’re not up for visitors,” Harry chuckled. Hermione gave a short-lived laugh and shook her head.

“Not tonight. I might even stay home from work tomorrow. I guess I’ll see.”

“Alright. Let me know if you need anything. I’m just a Floo away.”

Hermione thanked him and gave him a hug before finally disapparating. She landed in the middle of her living room and immediately threw her wand and purse onto the couch. When she faced the armchair, the feeling that had overtaken her the moment her attacker had died manifested tenfold.

“What took you so long?” Draco asked as he rose from the armchair. He walked over to Hermione and his eyes settled on her neck. She instinctively turned it to one side so that he could properly view the damage that had been done.

“I was questioned by Aurors,” she replied. “It was self-defense.”

“A death is a death so long as it was you to do it.” Draco let his fingers trace the outline of Hermione’s bruises, and she didn’t even try to control her shudder.

“We're not married yet. Why do I feel this way?” Hermione said as Draco explored the discoloration of her neck with his hands. It was delicate probing with an emittance of warmth. “The moment he died, I didn't care. All I wanted was to see you.”

“You're betrothed to me,” Draco answered. He was holding her wrists now, and he observed how bloody her hands were. “That makes you mine.”

Under normal circumstances, Hermione would cringe at being called such a possessive term. She was a person, not a thing. However, just like recently having killed a man, she didn't mind. For the death, there was no remorse, no guilt, and no repulsiveness at _literally_ having blood on her hands. In terms of Draco, she _wanted_ to be his. The curse was more than he had originally described and she felt it. Hermione had known that Draco was at her house. It had been an instinct she had known in her heart. She wanted nothing but to make him happy, and he wanted the same for her.

Hermione knew then and there that what Draco had said was true. Their happiness was at the expense of other people. A terrible curse indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you for the great response for the first two chapters! Looks like Hermione got to kill someone after all. How... convenient. :)
> 
> -WP


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